Official Fanfiction University of Hogan's Heroes
by Tirathon
Summary: Somewhere in the multiverse, there is a place where bad fanfiction writers are sent to be schooled. "Learning Through Pain" is its credo, and a writer of fanfic full of implausible plots, anachronisms, and Mary Sues is about to find out why. OFU story.
1. A Mysterious Letter

**Ineffectual Disclaimer: **The Official Fanfiction University concept belongs to Camilla Sandman. All honor to Miss Cam! Hogan's Heroes, of course, belongs to whichever media company currently owns it and their corporate masters. Allison is mine (and Tirathon is _me_).

**Important Note:** I am unreasonably busy with what I use for a life, and some things have to give. One such something, for the past year or so, has been my writing time. Updates to this story (especially beyond the next couple of chapters, which are already mostly finished) will most likely be very slow and irregular. If you hate following ongoing stories whose author updates at the speed of supercooled molasses, **STOP READING NOW** and wait until the day you see it with that wonderful word _Complete_. Also, this has not been betaed at this point, so read at your own risk.

**Revision Note:** As it was rather clearly pointed out, the technique I tried in the first version of this chapter (writing in the character's style instead of my own) was a dismal failure. I'm not sure if that's because Allison is a lousy writer or because I am, but either way, it was a big bucket of fail. This is the revised version, returned to my natural style for better or worse. And yes, I _do_ have every intention of finishing it; the warning was only that updates would most likely be slow. Also, Allison is _not_ meant to represent any particular person; if she's anyone at all she's me at 17, Mary Sues and all.

* * *

_._

_There! Finally!_ Allison clicked the "upload" button and waited for the story details screen. All it needed now was a title and a summary. She closed her eyes in thought, chewing absently on a curl of her unruly brown hair, then typed it in.

_Alexandrina And The Colonel: a new prisoner comes to Stalag 13 and its a girl and Tiger hates her who will Hogan chose? pairings: Hogan x OC, Hocksteder x Gertrude. Character death: Tiger. PLZ R&R!_

She felt sure that this was the best fanfic she had ever written. Sure, the basic plot had been done before, but this story was different because of the original character. Alexandrina was perfect for Hogan. She was beautiful, stubborn, and sassy, so everyone respected her. She wore gorgeous clothes. She could do all the things the canon characters did, she was a crack shot, and she could beat any man in camp in hand-to-hand combat. She could charm any of the Germans into doing what she wanted, well, except for that nasty little SS man. True, that was quite a lot to be good at, but an original character had to be really special to be interesting. _Who would want to read about an ordinary person?_ She wondered why the writers hadn't put a character like Alexandrina into the TV show. Maybe it was because of the wardrobe budget.

Allison picked _Romance_ from the story category menu. _What are the other choices even there for? Does anyone ever read them?_ One final click and the story was live. She emailed a few friends to tell them that her new fic was up so they could leave her good reviews.

Allison wondered why some people hated her stories. Many of the reviews were from uptight people who lectured her about history and geography as though it was important. _This is fanfic, not history class_. Who cared what women did back then, or whether or not you could drive from Germany to England? _Besides,_ _this is fiction. I can write whatever I want, and nobody has the right to tell me there's anything wrong with it._ Those people reminded her of her English 101 professor, who probably hadn't had a creative idea in fifty years and marked Allison's first paper down two letter grades because of her spelling and grammar.

What really bothered Allison were the flames. Some reviewers said the canon characters wouldn't do the things she wrote them doing, or she was using words that only sounded like the ones she wanted. Her mother explained that it was because they were jealous because they couldn't write as well as Allison did. That made her feel better, although she wished her mother would stop calling her "baby" as though she was a toddler instead of seventeen and in college. Still, the flaming continued. Hadn't anyone told those people that if they couldn't say anything nice, not to say anything at all? They could have told her what they liked about her story, the way the good reviewers did, but instead they said things were wrong with her stories, and the last time she wrote a story about Alexandrina, they called that character a Mary Sue.

That annoyed Allison more than the criticism of her grammar. She knew what Mary Sues were, of course: totally perfect characters that everybody in the fic loved. Alexandrina Amelia Anastasia Winston-Hogan wasn't a Mary Sue. Allison made sure Alexandrina had flaws. For instance, other characters never thought she would be good at anything because she was so young and so beautiful, so she had to prove she was better than they were all the time. Just in case that wasn't a big enough flaw, Alexandrina was afraid of big, hairy spiders. Allison had never actually put a tarantula in any of her stories, knowing that nobody would want to read a story where the most important character got scared, but she made sure to point it out when she introduced Alexandrina so that people would know she wasn't a Mary Sue. Besides, not everybody loved her. Major Hochstetter, who called her the most dangerous woman in all of Germany, hated her and was constantly trying to trap her.

Allison mentally chastised herself for woolgathering and returned to reality. Her roommate's big digital wall clock read 7:22; the story had taken almost two solid hours of writing. She pushed her chair back from the desk and stood up, stretching. For a moment she felt a bit odd, almost queasy. Lack of food, she decided; writing always made her hungry. Was it worth wandering down to the student lounge in the hope that there was something new in the vending machines that was better than those awful little donuts? Then the clock caught her eye again. Something was wrong with the numbers. It read 19:23 now. She blinked, and the clock was cheerfully displaying 7:23 as it should be. She shook her head to clear out the writing cobwebs, worrying that it was a repeat of last week's incident with the dining hall tacos, not just hunger, affecting her. Then she noticed something -- an envelope -- on her keyboard. _That_ had certainly not been there a moment ago.

_Okay, this is getting weird._ Clocks displaying the wrong numbers was one thing, but that envelope, business-sized, off-white, and looking solidly real, was something else entirely. There was no way it could have gotten on that keyboard, not without her noticing. She was standing three feet away from it and alone in the dorm room. The back of her desk was flat against a wall and there was nothing above it that the envelope could have fallen from. She looked around the room, then back. The letter still lay on her keyboard, inanimately oblivious to the fact that it had no right to be there. She studied it, not touching it. It was addressed to her: Miss Allison C. Haynes, 314-B Mikkelson Hall, and so on. "Miss"? That was so old-fashioned. There was no return address, at least not on the front, but something about it seemed official. She picked it up gingerly for a closer look. After a moment she realized what looked odd about the address: it was actually typed on a real typewriter, leaving faint impressions in the paper.

She pulled her Excalibur letter opener out of its little plaster stone, slit the envelope, and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. It was an official form of some kind on thin, almost crackly, paper. Her name typed was filled (also by a typewriter) at the top.

.

* * *

The Coordinator of the Official Fanfiction Universities

To __Allison__ _C_ __Haynes___

Order No. _34608___

GREETINGS:

Having submitted yourself to an Online Board composed of your fellow writers for the purpose of determining your availability for training in the Official Fanfiction University, you are hereby notified that you have now been selected for training and service in the __OFU of Hogan's Heroes__________.

You will, therefore, report to the Online Board named above at _#112_Yarnell___ at __8:00 pm__, on the ___23rd____ day of _October _2008______.

This Online Board will furnish transportation to an induction station of the University for which you have been selected. You will there be examined and if accepted for training and service, you will then be inducted into the stated University.

Persons reporting to the induction station in some instances may be rejected for physical or other reasons. If you are not accepted, you will be furnished transportation to the place where you were living when ordered to report for induction by this Online Board.

Willful failure to report promptly to this Online Board at the hour and on the day named in this notice is a violation of the Writer Training and Pain Act of 2002 and subjects the violator to mockery and flaming. Bring with you any items necessary for your life or health, such as prescription medications, sufficient for 2 weeks.

You must keep this form and bring it with you when you report to the Online Board.

__TirXxXxXxXx____________________ Member of Online Board

O.F.U. Form 150 (Revised 3/8/02)

* * *

_._

_What the?_ Allison read it again and tried to decipher the scrawl on the signature line. It started out as "Tir" and degenerated into something resembling spaghetti. Online Board? Official Fanfiction University? This had to be some kind of joke by one of her friends. It was the sort of thing Kayla would do, trying to weird her out with some bogus official letter, but Kayla should still be in that late Biology lab. She still couldn't figure out how anybody could have put that letter on her keyboard with Allison standing right there.

Why the Yarnell Building? That was one of the old brick buildings, right across from Old Main. It had been there since the days when the campus had only a handful of buildings and people traveled by horse and buggy. It was mostly professors' offices now. An explanation suddenly came to mind. _I bet it's a party!_ That would explain everything. Lauren and Kayla must be having a party, one of their crazy theme parties, and this was the invitation. That had to be it. When she got to room 103, someone would be there to tell her where to go next, or there would be a note or some other clue to where it was. She'd ask how they got the envelope onto her keyboard when she saw them at the party.

.

_Behind her monitor, a matchbox-sized rationalizer coil hummed gently._


	2. Room 112 Yarnell Building

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**Ineffectual Disclaimer: **The Official Fanfiction University concept belongs to Camilla Sandman. All honor to Miss Cam! Hogan's Heroes, of course, belongs to whichever media company currently owns it, and whoever currently owns them in turn. Allison is mine and Tirathon is _me_. I continue to bemoan the lack of my most worthy and trusted beta reader.

**A/N:** I get the point about my failed attempt at capturing Allison's style in the first chapter. I'll go back to my own style, which might not be Shakespeare but at least it's Tirathon. When I have some time I'll go and fix chapter one. Oh, and to whom it may concern: No, an actual story shipping Hochstetter and Frau Linkmeyer will not be any part of this. I'm not sure how I should react to more than one person assuming that it would, but I'm leaning toward "terrified" right now.

* * *

At ten minutes to eight, Allison stood on the worn limestone steps of Yarnell Building, wondering whether this was actually a good idea. What had seemed perfectly reasonable in the familiar surroundings of her dorm became less and less certain as she walked across campus. What if it wasn't a party invitation? What if it was some creep? _In the middle of a busy campus, in a public building where professors work late?_ She banished the doubts and went inside.

The door swung shut behind her with a dull thud and the click of a latch. The unfamiliar sound got her attention. The glass doors all over campus, so incongruous on the old brick buildings like Yarnell, made a swishing sound when when they closed. She looked back. For a moment, as she first glimpsed it in her peripheral vision, the door looked like wood instead of modern glass, with a doorknob instead of a push-bar. She rubbed her eyes, and the door was glass, just like it had been when she opened it. She turned back to the main hallway and saw light shine out from a room near the far end as someone she hadn't noticed before went in. _Must have come in the other door._ She headed for the occupied room, trying to dismiss her newest misgivings.

A poster on one of the bulletin boards on the walls caught her eye as she passed: a little boy with a basket of vegetables over the slogan "Plant a Victory Garden. Our food is fighting!" She turned to look and it was nothing but an announcement of the engineering department's upcoming open house. _That's _not_ what I saw._ She stared at the poster, but it stubbornly continued announcing the open house and promising refreshments. No little boys, no vegetables. As she turned away, for a moment she thought she saw the Victory Garden poster again. Refusing to look back, she walked briskly up to the door of room 112. She could see the shadows of several people moving around beyond the frosted glass; this must be the right place. She made sure her invitation was still in her pocket, ran her fingers through her hair, and turned the knob.

Allison felt a moment's queasiness as she entered the room, just as she'd felt back in her dorm before she found the invitation. _I hope it's not the dining hall tacos again._ She closed her eyes for a moment until the feeling passed. When she opened them, a different sort of disorientation hit her full force: she wasn't sure where she was, but she was definitely not in #112 Yarnell Building.

The room was warmer, as though the air conditioning had stopped working on a summer day. The lighting was yellowish, the glow of incandescent bulbs, instead of the cold light of the campus's standard fluorescent fixtures. Looking around, she saw a half-dozen people in a line leading to a desk directly across the room. A man in something like an Army uniform sat behind the desk, and two soldiers wearing white helmets and MP armbands stood on either side of him. Another two, she realized, flanked the door she had just entered through. Several people sat at two tables near the right-hand wall. They seemed to be filling out some kind of forms.

"What is...?" she began, but was interrupted by one of the MP's behind her.

"No talking. Get in line, pick up your forms."

Forms? This was starting to sound dangerously bureaucratic. Although this was her first semester in college, she was already well-conditioned. There were always forms. She got in line.

The man at the desk pulled one folder out of a stack of them with apparent irritation and handed it to the girl at the front of the line.

"You should have told me you spelled 'fan' with a 'ph'," he said. "It would have saved time. "Sit down and fill it out, then go through the other door and give them to the man at the desk."

The girl took the folder, sat at one of the tables, and started filling out whatever form was inside of it. Two of the girls at the tables got up and left the room via a door on the left wall that Allison, her attention on the line and the desk, hadn't even noticed. The next girl — they all seemed to be girls around her own age — stepped up to the desk.

"Pen name?" the man behind it asked sharply.

"Um ... Ariana14" she said in what sounded like a British accent. There was a folder for her, and the same instructions.

While the remaining four girls got their folders and two more joined the line behind her, Allison took the chance to look around the room. Further proof that this was not #112 Yarnell came from the fact that it was at best half the size the room should have been. The floor was covered with linoleum tiles in a checkerboard of dingy gray and dingy white. The walls were painted a pale institutional green, with several bulletin boards that had some type of official-looking notices on them, and a poster that said "Loose lips can sink ships." She wiped her hand across her forehead; she'd dressed for a crisp fall evening, not this unseasonable heat.

Allison was next. She stepped up to the desk, an old-fashioned wooden one holding the stack of folders, a small electric fan, and a nameplate that said "Sgt. Ferris."

"Pen name?"

"Allexa," she said, hastily adding "Two L's" to stave off any further irritation on the part of the sergeant.

Her folder was near the top. He handed it to her and repeated the same instructions in a flat voice. This seemed to be what college was really about: official paperwork. But why didn't these people do all of this by computer instead of having people carry dead-tree forms around? There were several empty chairs by the table; she sat in one and opened the folder.

"ENROLLMENT FORM - OFFICIAL FANFICTION UNIVERSITY OF HOGAN'S HEROES" was printed across the top. Below was a fairly typical, and highly bureaucratic, set of questions with blanks for the answers. She picked up one of the pencils scattered around the table and started filling them out. After the usual name and address questions came "next of kin"; that bothered her a bit. Allergies, medical conditions, education, all the usual things she had filled out on forms a million times before. Some of the questions seemed odd, such as languages spoken and foreign countries visited, and then, under the sub-heading PLACEMENT, came a series of questions she had never seen on any standardized form.

**Do you know what a Mary Sue is? Yes ____ No ____**

Allison put an X after "yes".

**Have you ever written one? Yes ____ No ____**

A big solid X after "no".

**Are you sure? Yes ____ No ____**

An extra-bold X after "no".

**What year was the US Air Force established? _______**

She had to think a bit about that one. _Hogan was a pilot, so of course he was in the Air Force, and World War II was in 1945, so maybe 1944?_ She filled in the blank accordingly.

**List the US Army officer ranks in order from lowest to highest.**

There was were seven blanks for that one. She chewed on the end of her pencil for a bit, then entered _private, sargent, leutenant, captain, colonel, general, admiral._ That last one didn't seem right, but she couldn't think of any other that might go there. Besides, she had suspected for a long time that nobody ever read anything people wrote on forms, they just checked to make sure all the blanks were filled in.

The next page seemed to be some kind of history test. There was a list of names she had to write one-sentence descriptions of. Hitler was easy, of course, and Goering, and Himmler. Who said watching Hogan's Heroes was a waste of time? Patton was easy, he'd been a general; there was a movie about him, though Allison hadn't seen it. Some were harder: Eisenhower, she wasn't quite sure of; he'd been President, was that during the war? Or was that Roosevelt? Which one? DeGaulle was a French leader? Most of the names were completely unfamiliar. Mitchell. Harris. Franco. Guderian. Rommel. Spaatz. Arnold. Stalin. Montgomery. Tedder. Donovan. Doenitz. Hirohito. Von Runstedt. Colonel Rol. Doolittle. Von Choltitz. Chenault. Galland. Canaris. Tito. Clark. LeClerc. Yamamoto. Baum. Skorzeny. The list went on and on. Who _were_ all these people? And why did they matter?

After that came questions about languages and countries, airplanes and tanks and guns, a few battles she'd heard of and a lot she hadn't, and things that had nothing to do with the military like long-ago music and movies. It took her about fifteen minutes to get through the whole thing, during which all of the other people at the tables had been replaced by new ones, and there were still three in line. Somehow, answering the questions and filling out the forms seemed to be better than just getting up and walking out of there, though she couldn't have explained why.

As instructed, she went through the door and found herself in a larger room with a similar arrangement, except that where the tables had been in the other room, here there were rows of chairs where a few of the people she'd seen in the previous room were sitting. She handed her folder to the man seated at the desk — the nameplate said Sgt. Esposito this time. He waved her to a chair. Still apparently not allowed to talk, she waited. Periodically the sergeant called a name and someone picked up their folder and proceeded through the far door. Apparently the next step in this process took less time than filling out the forms, because in only a few minutes, her name — her pen name — was called, she collected her folder from the sergeant, and went through the door.

That door led into a hallway. She looked around in confusion. This hallway couldn't be in Yarnell building; there should be stairs here. One of the ubiquitous MP's directed her to an open door on the far side, a few doors down. This room was larger, and much busier. There was a desk to the immediate right of the door and two more desks and a table further down that side, each of them with a man in uniform behind it. On the left was series of six doors that looked like department store dressing rooms. Red lights were on over three of them; as Allison watched, one went out. There was also a door on the far end. As usual, MP's stood by the doors. Allison, who was getting the hang of this now, joined the line — if you could call two girls a line — at the first desk.

The girl who spelled "fan" with a "ph" was the next up at the desk. The man behind that desk, whose uniform had more clutter on it than the previous ones, read through the girl's folder. Something interested him; he read it again. Then he directed the girl, folder in hand, through the far door. The girl in front of Allison, after a much briefer look through her folder, was directed to the next desk in line without her folder, and then it was Allison's turn.

"Hello, Miss Allexa. I'm Captain Turner," the man said. Allison was confused; she hadn't heard him speaking to either of the girls in front of her. He read the question on her face. "There is a cone of silence around us. Don't ask me about the technology; I don't know how it works, but we are speaking privately. Now, let me see ... very interesting." He looked through the papers. Reading upside down, she was surprised to see a copy of "Alexandrina and the Colonel" in the folder. _How did they get that?_

"All appears to be in order, Miss Allexa. I do not think you will find the Hogan's Heroes Boot Camp easy or pleasant, but you will certainly find it instructive. Please proceed to the tables to your left for your uniform issue."

"What's all this about?" she asked.

"Everything will be made clear at Orientation. We prefer to explain things to all the students at once, rather than having to duplicate our efforts with each one individually."

"What about my classes? People are going to miss me."

"Don't worry about that. You will return to the place and time you came from only moments after you left." With that, he slid a page out of her folder, handed that to her, and gestured to the desks to her left.

Both desks were manned by soldiers with typewriters, and the first had an antique-looking camera as well. The table, further down, had only a man standing in front of stacks of boxes. The man at the first desk took the paper from her, laid it next to his typewriter, and rapidly typed up something on what seemed to be some sort of card. As she watched, Allison realized that the typewriter wasn't plugged into anything — it was an actual manual typewriter. She had never seen a real one.

Next to the desk was an equally antique-looking camera. The soldier directed her to stand with her toes on a mark on the floor, and went behind the camera. Allison blinked as the flash fired. A small paper square slid out of the camera and the man affixed it to the card he had typed up.

At her curious look, he said "We do employ _some_ anachronistic technology" and, before she could ask what he meant, handed her the card. "This is your ID card. Keep it with you at all times. You need it to draw rations and for various other purposes." He waved her to the next desk.

She glanced at the card as she handed it to the soldier seated at the second desk. It looked rather like her student ID, though without the magnetic stripe or bar code, and with her photograph in black and white. _I guess some things are universal._ This time, the "typewriter" was not even a typewriter at all. Allison watched, fascinated in spite of herself, as the operator of the odd machine typed on two military dog-tags. He handed them to her, along with a little crinkly plastic packet containing a beaded chain. She moved on to the table at the end of the row.

This was manned by a somewhat chubby sergeant, if she was right about what three upside-down V-shaped stripes meant, and a second man with his back to her stood facing a row of large, open cardboard boxes lined up against the wall. The sergeant looked her up and down with a practiced eye.

"Female, medium," he called out, and the other man collected what appeared to be several items of khaki clothing from the boxes. He put them on the table, followed by a woven belt, a pair of low boots (so that's why they asked her shoe size on the form), a pair of socks, and a white canvas bag. The sergeant slid them across the table to Allison. "Change into your uniform — use any changing room without a red light — and put your civvies and everything you're carrying into the bag. Take the bag with you, exit through the door at the back of the changing room. Next!"

The nearest door's light was unlit. She entered, noticing the red light go on as the door closed behind her. Inside was what could have been any store changing room, right down to the mirror. "Everything" had certain limitations in her mind, and it wasn't like someone was going to search her ... were they? In a few minutes, she was dressed in khaki, had figured out how to work the sliding belt buckle, and had the boots laced up. She put her jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers into the bag. Her cell phone, credit card, and the $22 she happened to have in her pockets went into a pocket in her new pants. The tie included with the outfit was another matter entirely. _How the hell do guys tie these things anyway?_ After a half-hearted attempt, she stuffed that into a shirt pocket.

With her white bag in hand, she exited through the rear door as instructed. The fact that the door she had entered through had no doorknob on the inside made the choice of doors easy. The door led to a narrow corridor — probably the actual left side of the large room this whole setup had been built in in — with only one door leading out. Once again, the changing room doors had no knobs on this side. _They sure don't want us going the wrong way._

That door, in turn, led to another room with tables, boxes, and people issuing clothing and equipment. The man at the first table claimed her cloth bag, wrote her name and ID number on a tag, tied that to the bag, and tossed the bag into a wheeled canvas bin with dozens of identical bags of varying degrees of bulginess. He then handed her a khaki duffel bag and directed her to the next table.

By the time she reached the final table she had been issued an olive drab field jacket with separate quilted liner, a personal hygiene kit, a wind-up wristwatch, a folding mess kit, a pair of gloves, and what she was told was a garrison cap. _Cute, almost like Newkirk's, except khaki!_ The man at the final table issued her a cardboard box (olive drab, like anything else that wasn't khaki) with the words "Supplies, School, M-2002-A" printed on the top. That went into the duffel bag too, and she was directed out yet another door.

Once again, she felt that strange, queasy twist in her stomach as she went through the door. _I am not going to eat those tacos again._ Outside, it was dark except for a single light on the side of the building. What appeared to be an older model school bus, painted (of course!) in army olive drab, with "Official Fanfiction University of Hogan's Heroes" on the side, was waiting with its door open. There was, of course, an MP by the door. She had given up trying to figure out how all of this was happening on campus. Shouldering her lumpy duffel bag, she boarded the bus and found a seat.

It was dark on the bus — the windows were blacked out — and the unseen driver enforced the no-talking rule. Allison's initial excitement had died under the weight of filling out forms, walking between all those rooms, and collecting the bag full of gear that now reposed under her seat. Her last thought was _hey, they didn't even give us spare underwear_ as she dozed off.

~HH~HH~HH~HH~

"Raus! Raus!" The shouts woke Allison from her dream of sitting snuggled against Hogan, wrapped in his leather jacket, watching the sunset through the glittering barbed wire of Stalag 13. "Raus! Schnell!"

There were men in the bus, shouting in German. Their flashlight beams slashed through the darkness, blinding rather than illuminating the panicking students. Four Germans in gray uniforms, two with flashlights and two with pistols drawn, herded the students off the bus. When Allison tried to reach for her duffelbag, one of the flashlight-bearing soldiers grabbed her and yanked her into the aisle. Abandoning her bag, she stumbled out the door.

Outside, she squinted against the blinding brightness of truck headlights. There were more Germans here, and a lot more shouting. Someone grabbed her and shoved her roughly against the side of the bus, like a suspect on COPS. Too scared to think clearly, she did not resist. She felt hard and not particularly polite hands searching her, followed by the sound of her cell phone, her money, and presumably her credit card, hitting the ground. Another shove, and a jab with what couldn't be anything but a rifle barrel, and she stumbled toward a canvas-covered truck that was parked with its open tailgate towards the scene of chaos. One of the Germans said something she didn't understand, followed by a gesture that made his meaning perfectly clear: Get in the truck. The second time she tried to hoist herself into the chest-high truck bed, a heave from behind almost threw her in. She landed sprawling on the floor of the truck, getting mudh in her hair and grit in her nose. Someone gave her a hand up and she huddled on a long wooden bench with the other terrified girls. Nobody said a word, and even the two or three girls crying somewhere in the dark interior of the truck tried to sob silently.

When the bus had been completely emptied, a rifle-armed German clambered into the back of the truck and one of the men outside slammed the tailgate shut. The motor grumbled to life and, with a bump and a lurch, the truck moved out. The fuzzy-headed feeling that had been been with her since she found the letter was starting to lift; exhaustion took over its place, keeping Allison too numb to object to anything. Sleep, however, eluded her.

The first faint light of dawn was trickling in through through the canvas flaps when the truck jolted to a stop, then pulled forward again, then stopped once more. Someone from outside dropped the tailgate, and their guard ordered them out of the truck. The girl after Allison landed hard when she dropped off the back, twisting her ankle. Allison helped her up. With the girl leaning on Allison, they kept up with the others as the guards herded them into ragged ranks in front of a small wooden building. Then it hit her exactly where they were.

"But ... but it's not real!" she whispered. "It's not real!"


	3. Disorientation

**Ineffectual Disclaimer:** The Official Fanfiction University concept belongs to Camilla Sandman. All honor to Miss Cam! Hogan's Heroes, of course, belongs to whichever media company currently owns it, and whoever currently owns them in turn. Allison is mine and Tirathon is me. Once again, I bemoan the lack of my most worthy beta reader; to those of you who don't have one, you don't know what you're missing.

**Author's Notes:** 1) No, Allison isn't you. Chill. 2) All of you who have left useful comments (positive or negative), thank you. If you are one of the people who have apparently reacted mostly to other people's comments, I'd like to ask you to read the actual story before you judge it; there seems to be little in common with what I think I'm writing and what some people think they're reading. 3) Chapter 1 has been revised (and may be again), and now is less choppy and annoying. Yes, when I said I was going to fix it, I mean "as soon as I've had some sleep", not "at some vague future date."

**Enrollment:** In the OFU stories I've read in other fandoms (yes, there are dozens of these things), many of the authors accept enrollment requests from readers who would like to make a cameo appearance in the story. If you want a trip to Stalag 13, OFU-style, please PM me and I'll tell you what details I from you need to work you in. _Note: Don't try to enroll someone else. I will be checking._

* * *

"But ... but it's not real!" she whispered. "It's not real!"

"Silence!" a guard shouted, followed by something menacing in German.

Standing in the back rank, she looked past the trucks and the confusion to a familiar building with "Kommandantur" neatly lettered on a sign by the steps. The guard towers, the gates, it all looked both familiar and strange in the gray dawn light. The camp was a lot bigger than it looked on TV, but it was unquestionably Stalag 13. Allison had dreamed of being here, wishing so many times that it was possible. Now that she was standing with a dozen or so other girls in front of a rough-sided building whose sign read Barracke 6, she was getting a disturbing feeling that it might not be quite the romantic place she had imagined.

The trucks pulled away, leaving a pile of duffel bags on the ground. A portly German guard marched up to the formation of girls standing at the barracks to the right of Allison. _It's Schultz!_ Another guard, grim-faced, marched smartly over to her group and started counting the girls. Allison looked at the door of the Kommandantur. Sure enough, a tall, thin man with a monocle marched out. He looked a lot less like a bumbler than he did on TV, and a lot scarier.

"Reporrrrrrt!" Klink called out, exactly as expected.

"Herr Kommandant, all students present and accounted for!" Schultz replied.

"Good, good." Klink tucked his riding crop under his arm and walked past a few of the groups lined up by the barracks, then back to his usual position.

"Welcome to Stalag 13. I will start by reminding you that there has never been an escape from this camp, and there never will be. I am Colonel Wilhelm Klink, the Kommandant. I run this camp with an iron fist." He shook his fist in the air for emphasis. "You will find me tough but fair. If you obey orders and do not cause trouble, your stay here will be, how shall I say it, not as unpleasant as it would be otherwise. If you cause trouble, there is always the cooler."

While everyone's attention was on Klink and his speech, Allison noticed two other people were now standing in the shadows by the door to Klink's office. She could barely make out their outlines, but one of those outlines looked suspiciously like Colonel Hogan. She turned her attention back to Klink.

"...may address me as Herr Kommandant or Herr Oberst. You will salute me or Captain Gruber when and as you would your own officers. You..." He was interrupted by a mocking laugh from the ranks, somewhere in the group to Allison's right.

"Salute yourself, if you can do it without knocking your monocle out!" an insolent female voice called out.

"Who said that? Who said that?" the Kommandant spluttered.

"I did!" the voice replied. "You want to do something about it, Bald Eagle?" A girl who looked about sixteen sauntered out of the group by the next barracks over. She was, in a word, stunning. Her raven-black hair fell in glossy waves to her waist and, instead of a khaki uniform like the rest of them, she was wearing a tight white sweater that left no curves to the imagination, a short red skirt, and three-inch heels.

"Go back where you belong!" Klink ordered, pointing with his riding crop.

"Oooh, you're so cute when you're angry. Give us a kissy!" she said, and, arms out, approached Klink.

"Did you not hear me? I order you to get back in formation!" Klink's voice had a hard edge to it, not at all like his TV persona. The girl ignored the order and continued toward him. When she got within ten feet of Klink, he moved his hand. A single shot rang out from one of the guard towers.

The next few minutes of horror were burned into Allison's memory. It was nothing like what she had seen in movies and on TV. The black-haired girl dropped to the ground, but was neither silent nor dead. She thrashed around, screaming in a high, almost inhuman, voice. Two or three of the girls started to step forward to help her, but they stopped at the sound of rifles being cocked by the guards. It seemed to take an eternity for the girl on the ground to die. Her screams changed to gurgles, then to gasps, and her thrashing grew weaker as dark blood spread in the dirt. Finally, mercifully, she lay still.

Half the girls were crying, one in front of Allison had fainted, and Allison herself was alternating between terror and rage as she looked from the dead girl to Klink.

"So. You now understand that my orders are to be obeyed."

"You murdered her!" one of the girls said. Everybody froze, expecting retaliation for that outburst.

The two people in the shadows on the porch walked out to stand next to Klink, one on each side. One of them, as Allison had suspected, was Colonel Hogan. If it had not been for what she just witnessed, she would rushed into his arms, or at least tried to get him into hers. The other person was something of an enigma: shorter than Hogan or Klink by a few inches, slender, and somewhat androgynous looking. With no cues to go on, Allison decided to consider him male. His hair was pure white, with bangs hanging over his forehead. _He looks like an anime character come to life._ He was wearing a plain black uniform with no insignia.

"I am Tirathon. I am the Director of the Official Fanfiction University of Hogan's Heroes," the white-haired man began.

"You murdered her!" someone said again.

"That," he gestured to the body, "is not even human. Watch it for a while."

Still shaking in reaction, Allison watched. There was something odd about the body of the girl lying sprawled on the blood-soaked dirt. It seemed dull and faded. As they watched, still in shock, the corpse became less and less substantial. Now they could see through it. The fading increased, and finally there was nothing there at all, not even the blood.

Hogan spoke for the first time. "We set that up."

"Who was she?" the girl who had accused them of murder demanded.

"Not who, what," Tirathon said. "That was a Mary Sue. Since it was never a part of this reality to begin with, when it died it faded back into the imagination it came from. As Colonel Hogan said, we planted it in your group to make a point." Allison, remembering the questions about Mary Sues, shuddered slightly. Klink spoke next.

"I trust my little demonstration made an impression on you," Klink continued. "When we give orders – and by 'we' I mean any member of the guard or teaching staff – we expect instant obedience. You will find that you have very few comforts and privileges here. Those which you do have are entirely under our control. Whether we take them away or give you additional ones depends entirely on your behavior. Remember the iron fist!

"The rules are posted inside each barracks. The most important rules for you to remember are not to attempt to enter the staff quarters, not to approach any staff member without their permission, and not to cross the warning wire inside the fence. That is the waist-high strand of wire you will see there. I know what you all want to ask: will the guards shoot you? The answer is yes."

Klink paused a moment to let that sink in. "Most of the guards' rifles are in fact what would be called, in your time, a 'wireless Taser'. I do not pretend to know how it works, but I do know that if you are shot with one, you will fall down immediately and be in a great deal of pain thereafter. I am certain that at least one of you will provide a demonstration of this within the first 24 hours, most likely by trying to, I believe 'glomp' is the word, one of the canon characters such as Colonel Hogan or myself."

"Newkirk's running a betting pool on who it's going to be," Hogan interjected.

Tirathon took over again. "You are all here because of one thing: You have been identified as writers of bad Hogan's Heroes fan fiction. Some of you are guilty of anachronisms, others of sueage, and still others of crimes against grammar. In order for you to continue writing in this universe, you are required to have a valid Writer's License. That can only be obtained by achieving a passing grade here at the Fanfiction University. That requires a score of at least 80% in all of your classes. For those of you who are interested in advanced certification, we will also have an optional summer session for special projects.

"You will not see me on a regular basis. My time is occupied with administrative duties. Colonel Klink and Colonel Hogan are jointly in command of this camp, with special focus on the camp operation and the student body, respectively. They also, along with their fellow canon characters, will be teaching your classes.

"The next ten months will not be a vacation. You will be under military discipline, which it appears you must be taught, and you will be living the life of a prisoner of war in Stalag 13. You can expect to be cold, hungry, sore, short on sleep, and very busy with your studies, which will be intensive. 'Learning Through Pain' is the credo of the Official Fanfiction University system. You will have a strong incentive to pass your classes.

"Before I turn this over to my colleagues, there is one other thing which I must impress upon you, both as writers and as citizens: When you write in the Hogan's Heroes world, you are writing in the real world. This is not Middle Earth or Narnia. The specific situations and events of the TV show are fiction, but their setting is not. This is real history. This is real war. More than sixty million people died worldwide, most of them civilians. The horrors of that era really happened, to real people. Governments systematically imprisoned and exterminated their own citizens. Conquering armies slaughtered prisoners and civilians alike. Two blood-soaked empires were built on murder, slavery, and plunder, and threatened the freedom of the world. You are writing in a world that real people lived and died in. They deserve better than to have their tragedies and triumphs made into a playground for fools."

Tirathon turned, walked up the steps, and vanished Klink's office. Hogan stepped forward into the silence of two hundred people, most of them teenage girls, absorbing that speech. Coming on the heels of the shooting of the Mary Sue, it left them pale and shaken. Hogan's words brought back some order and normality.

"There are three _Appells_ – roll calls – daily: 6 am, noon, and 8 pm. Lights-out is at 10 pm. Breakfast and lunch are immediately after their respective roll calls, dinner is at 7. You can either eat in the mess hall or designate a representative to collect the food for your barracks. I recommend the latter. The barracks you're standing in front of are the ones you've been assigned to. As soon as the Kommandant dismisses you, collect your gear from the pile over there, go to your assigned barracks, and claim a bunk. A staff member will be there to answer your questions."

Hogan turned back to Klink, saluted, and left them to the Kommandant.

"You have the remainder of today free to get settled," Klink told them. "Your classes start after roll call tomorrow morning. I hope you will be ready. Diiiiiis-missed!"

Allison's duffel bag happened, by luck, to be near the top of the pile, so she was one of the first into her barracks. It was a long, narrow room, with four sets of bunks down each side, long tables up the middle, and a small stove for heating and cooking in the center. There seemed to be more tables and the lighting seemed brighter than she remembered from TV; perhaps that was so they could study. The bunks on the left side were mostly empty, so she tossed her duffel bag on the bottom one closest to the door. The mood was subdued, with a few girls still looking shaky after what they'd watched. Just as Allison was about to introduce herself to the rest, the door opened and two men entered.

Allison's eyes lit up as she recognized Louis LeBeau, accompanied by one of the German guards. A girl on the other side of the room was less restrained; she dove off her upper bunk directly at him. She collided instead with the guard, who had stepped in front of the diminutive Frenchman.

"You heard the Kommandant: Do not glomp," a scowling LeBeau told the girl as she picked herself up off the floor. "Not unless you want to visit the cooler." He looked around the room for any other probable glompers and, seeing none, relaxed and sat on the edge of the table.

"I am Corporal Louis LeBeau, but I hope you know that already. I am your staff member for Orientation. I am sure you have many questions. I will try to answer them."

One of the girls in the back spoke up: "I twisted my ankle. Where is the medical center?"

"Medical center?" LeBeau chuckled. "There is the Infirmary and Sergeant Wilson. He is very good with sprains. I will tell him to come over here after his barracks is settled in."

"Are you going to be cooking for us?" the girl who had tried to glomp LeBeau asked eagerly.

"Cooking for you? That is a funny joke. If you want cooking, you will do it yourselves."

"But ... what? And how?"

"You will have three meals a day. Breakfast is bread and tea. Lunch is something the _Boche_ call cabbage soup. Dinner is bread, potatoes, and tea, and sometimes a thing that might have been meat a long time ago. Maybe before the war."

"We'll starve!"

"It will be good for some of you." A few of the chubbier girls glared at him. "Also, you can earn camp scrip for working, for getting the top score on an exam, and for other things. That way you can buy some extras at the canteen. Maybe there will be ways to win special prizes. Of course you will receive Red Cross packages every two weeks."

"I need to go into town shopping," said another of the girls, with an arrogant tone that Allison found surprising under the circumstances.

"You want to go shopping?" LeBeau asked as though he couldn't believe his ears.

"Yes, of course. I'll need a car, and directions to the nearest mall, and my credit cards that your thugs took."

LeBeau was looking at her in open disbelief. "What is your name?"

"Missy. So where can I go shopping?"

"Missy, you do not seem to understand where you are. This is a prisoner of war camp. You are a prisoner. You do not go _shopping_," LeBeau answered with a touch of anger.

"Well, we'll see about _that_ once I talk to Klink.

"Yes, I am sure we will. Now are there any more questions?"

"Where are the guys?" That was from one of the chubby girls.

"The 'guys' are in the north compound of the camp. You will not be coming in contact with them."

"Not at all?" came from several of the girls at once.

"Not at all. Men are not kept in the same areas as women. Despite the stories some of you write, you will not be sharing your quarters with any of the male students."

"What about clothes?" one of the girls in the back asked in a slightly whiny voice. "All we have is what we're wearing."

"That is all _we_ had when we came here. Extra uniforms will be delivered with your Red Cross packages.

"What will the classes be about?" Allison asked.

"They will be about the things you need to know to write Hogan's Heroes fan fiction. There will be history, technology, popular culture, military procedures, languages, even cooking. Also there will be some courses on writing. There are too many of you who do not know what to do with an apostrophe. Some classes will be for only a few weeks, others will be longer."

"When do we get to choose our classes?"

"You do not get to choose. You will be given a schedule based on the stories you have written and the forms you filled out at the induction center. If you are interested in independent study, you should consider signing up for our optional summer session."

The questions and answers went on for an hour. They found out about heating, cooking, and their wood allotment for the stove. They were informed that all of the famous Stalag 13 tunnels were sealed off from their access. Finally, one person asked LeBeau the question that was in all their minds.

"But ... you aren't real. How do you even exist? And why are you still exactly like you were on TV?"

"You think I am not real?" He lightly shoved the nearest student. "Did a ghost just push you? I am real! As long as someone watches our show, we are real. Now that it is on DVD, we will be here for a very long time."

"It seems that we are done, then. Your class schedules will be distributed after roll call tomorrow morning. You need to choose a barracks chief to collect them for you."

"Why?" the shopping-obsessed girl, Missy, asked.

"Because we cannot have hundreds of people crowding around to get things like the schedules. It is better if each barracks sends one person. Also, although you do not seem to realize it yet, you are now in a military organization. The important word is _organization_. The barracks leaders are like cadet officers. It is their duty to keep order and make sure things run smoothly."

There were no more questions and orientation was over. With a promise to send Wilson for the sprained ankle, LeBeau and his bodyguard (warily eying possible glompers) left the barracks.


	4. Interlude

Colonel Hogan stepped through the door from the Kommandant's office and, by way of the plothole created by canon's many floorplan changes, entered a large room crowded with people dressed in olive-drab, khaki, and Luftwaffe blue. The sound of conversation in several languages filled the room, punctuated by hearty laughter that could only come from Sergeant Schultz. Hogan spotted Colonel Klink and Tirathon chatting near the table of coffee and snacks and joined them.

"Everyone here?" he asked them.

"Yes, except for Sergeant Carter who is in the staff infirmary with a wrenched knee," Klink replied.

"Glomping injury?"

Klink nodded. "One of the girls in Barracks 11. She is spending the night in the cooler and has been ordered to write an essay about the experience."

"I'm surprised he was the only one. Our boys must be getting faster. Well, let's get this meeting started. We've got a lot to cover," Hogan said.

Colonel Klink turned to the room and proclaimed "This meeting will come to order!" A few of the closer people stopped talking for a moment, then returned to their conversations. Klink turned to Hogan with a plaintive look.

"You heard the Kommandant. Pipe down, everyone!" Hogan bellowed. Conversations stopped mid-sentence.

"Thank you, Colonel Hogan," Klink said. He looked around the now-quiet room, unfolded several typewritten pages of notes, and cleared his throat. "First, I have some announcements. Staff members who still have not been assigned quarters should speak with Fraulein Helga. Those who cannot _find_ their quarters should speak to Coordinator Tirathon, who informs me that there have been some difficulties with unstable plotholes. Second, everyone who picked Sergeant Carter in the glomping pool should speak with Corporal Newkirk after this meeting to collect their winnings. Finally, the problem with the laundry service has been resolved; there should be no further difficulties with excess starch." Several people around the room visibly relaxed at the last announcement. Klink accepted a glass of water from Sergeant Schultz and sipped it before he continued.

"Now there is the matter of course assignments. We still need instructors for "That's No Tiger! Armored Fighting Vehicles and You" and "Secret Weapons Programs". If you are able to teach either class, please see Colonel Hogan or me after the meeting. Also, Hans Teppel will be delayed several days, so "Intelligence Agencies of the World" and "Deus Ex Machina" will be exchanged on the class schedule with "Principles of Subterranean Construction" and "The Geneva Convention: What's in it for You?" Other than those matters, the schedule is now set for the first two months of the session. Tomorrow..." Klink was abruptly cut off by a loud outburst from a back corner of the room.

"What is this woman doing here?"

"Wolfie, _dah_ling, I just _adore_ short men. And besides, we will be teaching classes together. We should get to know each other better."

"Teaching ... classes ...together?" Hochstetter's voice held an edge of panic.

"All right, you two," Hogan interrupted before things got out of hand, or at least any further out of hand. "Major Hochstetter, get control of yourself. Marya, the rules against glomping apply to the staff as well as the students."

"But you know how much I love men in uniform," Marya began. Hogan cut her off again.

"Love him on your own time, not in my staff meeting." Hogan visibly suppressed his irritation, and Klink continued.

"Someone passed me a note." Klink read it, and fixed a British officer by the snack table with a piercing glare. "With regard to your request, Colonel Crittendon, thank you for offering, but although Sergeant Carter has a wrenched knee, you will _not_ be teaching his explosives class."

Somewhere in the back, someone muttered "Because we need the camp where it is." Klink shifted the eagle gaze to Newkirk. After a moment of glaring at an innocently smiling Newkirk, Klink turned the meeting over to Hogan.

"The only announcement I have for today is now that the students have settled in, the guards will be releasing the minis from their pen. As most of you probably know, a mini appears when a fan writer misspells one of our names. For some reason, ours show up as hats. Be particularly careful around Shulz, Shultz, and the innumerable misspellings of Corporal Langenscheidt. I don't want to hear of anyone in the infirmary because they took a header over a walking helmet. If nobody else has anything to add," Hogan waited a moment, looking around the room but conspicuously overlooking Crittendon and Hochstetter, "then we're through. Today, while the students are still somewhat stunned by what they've been through, is the last peaceful day we're going to have for a while. Chef LeBeau's people have a feast waiting for us in the staff dining room. Let's enjoy it while it lasts. This meeting is dismissed."


End file.
